


Impressions

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: Castiel's Hope [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cake, Concussions, Dancing, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Food, Protective Castiel, Stitches, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What had possessed Cass to think he could keep Dean and Elle apart when they were living in the same building?  Or even to think that he could keep her safe?  The more Cass finds out the worse her predicament seems.  The only icing on this fast spoiling cake is the chemistry Elle and Dean find with each other.  Is it worth it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't look too hard

Elizabeth tried to recall the comfort she’d first felt upon contact with Castiel, back at the diner that day. She wanted it to keep her from panic, from terrible imaginings that could explain what was happening. She was sure he hadn't been sick: He didn't have that acrid smell on his breath. His blood-stained hand was poorly cleaned, without water even. Castiel was agitated and angry, constantly kneading the steering wheel, and although Elizabeth was fairly sure his anger wasn't aimed at her, she didn't want to redirect it with any hapless talking.

Once they arrive at the bunker, she moves deliberately, keeping herself calm, and Castiel meets her at the car door, escorting her inside. She tolerates the handling, relieved that he lets go upon getting inside. As they eventually get to the library, Elizabeth speeds up to get herself on the other side of the desks. She turns, hoping to start a conversation.  
“We should go to your room,” Castiel says, slowing but not actually stopping, gesturing for the hallway.  
“Why?” Elizabeth asks carefully.  
“In case the brothers come home.”  
“Why don’t we go to your room?”  
“It’s no matter, Elizabeth, we shouldn't stay here.”  
She motions that she'll comply and Castiel waits for her to go first, which doesn't put her at ease, although he does walk beside her when he can, and not behind.

Elizabeth goes to her own room, out of habit, and once inside Castiel stands directly in front of the door. She stands with the ensuite behind her, her bed to her right, and the desk, chair and lounge chair to her left. Her stare is as steady as she can manage, her hands in quiet fists.  
Castiel looks at her, expecting her to ask questions, as it seems most likely. Instead, Elle waits.  
Her waiting is pointed. Everything about her says _Go on: talk._  
Seconds pass. Elle maintains her glare. Within half a minute, Castiel feels cornered.  
He finally makes an effort. "That would've been confusing, I imagine."  
“Yes,” she agrees, giving nothing.  
“I'm not sure I actually need to explain myself to you,” he throws out, pathetically defiant.  
“Yes, you do.” Elizabeth crosses her arms. “If you don’t explain things, I'll leave.”  
“Well, the bunker was fine before you came.”  
“I know,” she replies flatly, "that's not why I'm here." His shiftiness is giving her strength, but the conversation is getting ridiculous.  
“Look, I'm not going to push you to lie to me again” - Castiel looks wounded - “well, you have, haven’t you?”  
He drops his shoulders, conceding the point.  
"Let me put it to you like this: on paper, my situation is shit.” Elle recrosses her arms and begins. “I've skipped out on my return flight to England and in a few weeks I'll be an illegal alien, which is not good. It’s illegal for me to even earn a wage. I'm living in a strange situation, my contact limited to only one person, whose last name I don’t even know.”  
She continues, gesturing to the horizon, leaning in and becoming upset. Cass takes steps towards her out of concern. "I’ve dropped contact with colleagues and friends, I've dropped Facebook, I've deflected emails… If I were my own best friend, I would tell me to get my ass out of the country as soon as, via Canada if necessary. I should be shitting bricks….” He nods, gravely, and she rests her hands on her hips, breathing deeply. “Cass, with what you've paid me so far, I could've gotten back to New York and gotten my money, but neither of us has suggested it. You’re clearly not keeping me here for you know, _you_ , but we _are both_ keeping me here. It’s dodgy as all hell,” she summarises, pointing at the ground, shaking. Cass steps forward again, in arm’s reach, wanting to comfort her.  
Elle goes on, pleadingly. “I don’t know why I'm being so complacent. Cass, I cannot, for the life of me, explain why I'm okay with this ridiculously shady set up,” her chin starts to wobble. “But now, you turn up bloodstained and scary…”  
Cass takes her hands in his and says nothing, as kindly as possible. Elle breathes, reading the regret in his eyes. She calms and holds Cass’s hands in return. She finds the question to ask. “Do you know why I'm here?”  
“I can’t explain-” he tries.  
“But do you know?”  
“I have part of an explanation,” he says, plainly, “but I need to do more research to be sure of my information.”  
“Ugh, that’s a crap answer,” she says, shaking her head.  
“It is,” he agrees, and after a few moments he adds “You are right about me not keeping you here for myself, although I'm not sure it’s entirely unselfish. You being safe does give me comfort. And I am sorry to scare you.”  
“Since when was my safety so unpredictable?”  
“Well, in truth, anyone’s safety can pivot on the head of a pin. So many factors influence the workings of any one moment that to presume to be sure of one’s safety-“  
“I don’t see no ark for the ill-fated masses here, Cass. It’s just me. Why _me_?” Elizabeth demanded.  
“That’s…” he stalls, “that’s part of the explanation.”  
“Okay,” she says, letting him go and collecting a tissue from her desk. “You know what? You have a day. Figure out what you’re going to say - the truth, right? - ” and he nods, “- and bring it tomorrow at dinner.”  
“I will, Elizabeth. I will bring you the truth,” he promised, without any hint of a threat, and let himself out her door.  
Cass walked to the end of the corridor before spiriting himself away to whatever sources he could think of that could help.


	2. Pie fixes everything

Sam and Dean had returned to the bunker moments earlier, before the conversation in Elle’s room had ended, but had checked the dungeon and other work rooms first. They missed Castiel’s leaving, not seen his car, and assumed he’d never come home. Once they’d confirmed he wasn’t there at all, Dean knocked over a library chair and kicked another out of frustration, cursing at his misfortune.  
“Are you throwing a tantrum?” Sam asks incredulously.  
“No!” Dean yells, indignant. “It’s not a tantrum!”  
“Is too!” Sam laughs.  
“Is not!” Dean cries.  
Sam crosses his arms and leans where he stands. Oreally, say his eyebrows.  
“Aaah!” Dean dismisses, calming a little. “…Who do you think she could’ve been?”  
“Honestly, Dean, she could be anybody. Why do you want to know so badly?”  
“I don’t know! I just… I just…” he starts gesturing with both hands, like he’s trying to scoop an emotion out of his belly. “I just can’t drop it. I feel like I should meet her.”  
“Was she sexy?”  
“Psh! Yeah! She had… her legs were…” he tries, doing his best to build a response, hands desperately painting the air with her form... “Well, her hair was like… I’m pretty sure she was reasonably hot.”  
Sam tries leading him with “Her face was…?”  
Now Dean looks concerned as he admits “I didn’t see her face.” He puts his hands on his hips, chewing his bottom lip.  
“Have you checked yourself for hex bags?” Sam asks, beginning to worry.  
Dean pats his pockets: “Nothing.”  
“Okay, well… short of some potion, I dunno!” Sam shrugs. “Maybe we really do need to find out who she is.”  
“Should we pray to Cass?” Dean asks pitifully.  
“No. I’m pretty sure finding out about a girl isn’t summon-an-angel worthy. We should just call it a day and see if you feel different tomorrow.”  
“Okay,” Dean concedes, and then perks up on an idea. “Is there any pie left? That stuff has healin’ power.”  
“Well, it definitely can’t hurt.”  
A few pieces of Elizabeth’s peach pie was just the thing. Sam had enjoyed having a dessert at the end of these rough days. Dean always felt a wave of contentment wash over him upon the first bite. These pies, her cooking, did more for his mood than anything else he’d met in the last few years. _What can’t pie fix?_ he wonders.


	3. Private Dancer

Dean hovers over a quick breakfast. At least, it looks like a quick breakfast, but he’s taking a long time to finish it.  
Sam’s cleaning up the dishes from his third course. “How you feeling today? Any different?”  
“Yeah, I’m all good. Better. Normal.” Dean replied. “Rrrrested.” Thumbs up. Nod.  
“Well… that’s great,” Sam remarked, frowning. He decides to let it go. “So, you good to go check out this warehouse? It’s like an hour away, I wanna fit it in before lunch, get supplies.”  
“Yup,” he says, giving up on his toast, “yep.” Flashed smile.  
Sam frowns more.

Sam’s car pulls out of the garage, Dean in the passenger seat. Within moments he’s patting his jacket, his pockets, muttering.  
“Shit. Shit, Sam, I forgot my phone,” he says, “I gotta go back.”  
“Sure, I’ll-“  
“Look, do you need me for this? Can you- ”  
“Yeah, sure, whatever. You’re that distracted, I’m not sure you’d be useful anyway.”  
“Awesome! Thanks bro,” Dean smiles, patting him on the shoulder.  
“Why do you want to stay back anyway?”  
“Uuuh, I just… wanna check if Cass needs any help.” Flashed smile again.  
“Right,” Sam breathes, looking back at the road. Dean calls “Good luck” while he jogs back to the bunker.

Dean lets himself inside, trying to imagine a legitimate reason to call on Cass. Heading for the library he soon hears [a haunting tune](http://youtu.be/P4T3tMkjRig) echoing through the corridors. He can’t quite name it, but he recognises it with a shiver. Suspecting something hostile, he pulls his gun from his jacket, readies it for whatever he might meet. He creeps through the bunker, trying to pin point the source, wracking his brain for the location of the memory. It has a sweet flavour, tantalising.  
He rounds a corner and all of a sudden the lyrics are clearer – “sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you…”. He recognises the song, and he aches a little at the nostalgia. Keeping as quiet as possible, he aims for the kitchen, trying to think clearly past the cloud of memory and temptation the singing invokes. It sounds so real. He’s sure otherworldly intentions are playing him.  
He rounds the doorway, silently, aligning his sights with the source, and finds himself aiming at the back of a woman’s head. A familiar woman.  
For a moment, he’s frozen. You, he thinks. She’s preparing ingredients, her headphones disguising him, as she sings along - “Dream a little dre-eam of me…”  
He snaps to, realising that this must be Elizabeth, and lowers his weapon, but can’t quite bring himself to move, even though she might see him there.  
The song ends, another begins and she shifts the rhythm of her body. He watches.  
Half way through the potatoes she nicks herself “Ah! Shit!” she exclaims, sucking her teeth, “pain in the arse!” Still stunned, he notices her accent. She sucks on her thumb. He puts his hand over his own mouth, trying to take stock, and stunned smile spreading. She is, singularly, the most appealing sight he’s ever seen.  
Dean backs up as silently as he can, back through the doorway, and shifts a little to the side so that he’s generally out of sight, obscured by the edges of tables and chairs. He slowly settles down against the wall, puts his gun away, and he watches her. She’s wearing the same skinny jeans, a loose white t-shirt with short cap sleeves – its old cotton and wearing thin. Her hair is braided loosely to the side and draped over her shoulder. Her feet are bare.

Over the next 20 minutes, Dean steals her privacy, watching her work through song after song, preparing that wonderful Moussaka. She’s gotta be a dancer, he guesses. He hasn't picked up many new songs recently, but he finds himself suddenly so frustrated that he can’t follow the music as she dances, especially when she pulls out the [saucier moves](http://youtu.be/VF6-J5BCxWM). She has definitely danced with a pole, he decides. “Baby I’m howlin’ for you” she pouts. Oh yes, he smiles, those hips could sign my name.  
He forgets where he is, who she is, and smiles along with her fun. And then her beloved player betrays her, bringing up her favourite daggy-dancing song again, and she puts the knife down to whip out the cheezy mardigras moves. “ - she’s a hur-ri-cane in all kinds of weather! Jump in the line-” Maraca! Maraca! Shimmy, shimmy, shimmy! Go the hips!  
And then at the bridge, as she does four claps on the beat, moving her arms like a clock, she hears something –  
“A-ha!”  
And she freezes.  
In the moment she hesitates to turn around, Dean frantically scuffles to his feet and clumsily sneaks off toward the bedrooms.  
“Cass?!” Elizabeth calls. “Hello?”


	4. Best Impresisons

Elizabeth runs to the doorway, pulling the headphones to her neck, trying again “Hello?!” and sees Dean’s back sneaking away “Oh! I-” he turns, to face the music, and a quiet curse slips from Elizabeth’s lips.

Dean and Elizabeth lock eyes and barely notice it happen. He melts into a smile. _Holy crap, that’s Elizabeth?… that’s Elizabeth…_ he thinks, but he keeps his cool as best he can. She gives a soft, friendly smile, her news-ticker showing _Fuuuuuuuuuuuuu…. Tall. Handsome... Very handsome... And tall..._ Then he really smiles. _Aw, shit,_ she thinks, _he’s a wanker, too. Dammit._ But still, she’s off balance from his spying, his good looks, and she retreats, turning off her player and walking back to the kitchen to get her bearings. Dean follows, smacking his own forehead thinking, _Holy fuck, could I be a bigger douchbag?!_

“I'm sorry! Sorry. I didn't see much,” he fibs.  
“Okay,” she says, not turning to face him. His looks are too distracting for her right now. She’s trying to remember why they’re not supposed to meet, which, at that same moment, is something Dean actually recalls.  
“Damn, sorry. I'm a dumb ass. I'll go.” He backs away, absently patting his legs. “Um, yeah, I should go.”  
“No, you can stay, um,” Elizabeth turns, searching for a reason…  
“Okay,” he quickly accepts, and takes the moment to look at her face again... “You okay?”  
“Yeah, I'll get over it. At least I was properly dressed.” _Sweet Jesus woman. Did you hit your head? Just chop something._  
Dean laughs, curious about why she might say that. “You making that moussaka?” he begins, keeping his place.  
“Yeah, thought it had been a while,” she answers, layering the aubergine.  
“I could eat that all year,” he says.  He takes off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the nearest chair.  
Elizabeth still can’t look at him. She silently collects the compliment with a smile, which he notes.  
“That lasagne is amazing too. Where did you cook before?”  
“I've never cooked for a job. This is just what I cook for dinner.”  
“Wow… So what, your normal job is dancing?” he asks, taking a step forward.  
 _Okay,_ Elizabeth thinks, _settle down buddy._ She shakes her head, smiling, a little thrown by the compliments, but quickly comes to the decision that he’s a player. _He most likely flirts with any woman who’s lighter than him and half keen. No wonder he’s been in trouble in love._ In short, she decided he wasn’t actually attracted to her, just the opportunity. While Elle knew she wasn't hard to look at, and she cold be pretty, she never considered herself anything near model material. Not quite the girl next door… maybe a few doors down from her. Blame television, blame society, whatever; Elizabeth had been trained to doubt her own appeal. Hardly a unique habit.  
“No, my normal job, Hitch, is in youth outreach,” and she stopped, tongs in hand, to see if she could convincingly look at him and relax at the same time. _Nnnnope._  
“Wow, that must be a rough gig,” he commented, crossing his arms and leaning against the back of the chair nearest her.  
Elizabeth started to prepare the top sauce, mentally sparring with each perceived flirt: _Yes, I can see you have big muscly arms, well done._  
“Yeah, it’s challenging. Lots of life skills though,” she says, grating away at a pound of cheese.  
“Prepared you for adolescent men like me, hey?”  
“You can just say men; it’s prepared me for men,” she smiles.  
“Yeah,” he grins, and she notices how he’s watching her work the cheese against the grater. _This is not what I would call a sexy action…_ she thinks.  
“Hey, you could do this, or stir the meat,” she gestures with her head, deflecting his attention.  
“Yeah, sure,” he says, jumping up for the spoon. She instantly regrets trying to interrupt his opportunity to perve at her; now he can actively play, and he seems pretty keen. _Yeah, share a kitchen activity,_ she thinks, mentally facepalming herself, _that’s never been provocative!_

She goes back to her recipe, hovering her finger over the next step, unable to read the words. Her brain is tripping over itself: _You are not going to have a fling, or anything, with this guy. He'll discard you, you'll be heartbroken. Don’t even flirt back, he'll probably take any window he can get._  She shakes her head at little at the resolution, and is finally able to retain an instruction.

Had she looked properly at Dean, or even known him a little better, she might have thought differently. He isn't feeling predatory. He isn't even properly taking in her behaviour. He is just savouring being next to her. His words, of course, are flirty out of habit, but his mind is unusually distracted. _Here she is,_ he thinks, _she’s been here the whole goddam time. I could just reach out and pull her in. She smells like soap and cinnamon. Look at those lips, so sweet... that smile. She’s probably got me all figured out..._ If he’d been able to read the transcript, Dean of a mere day ago would've smacked him upside the head, demanding what the hell was going on. But right now, he was just... happy.

So, Castiel has been calling you Elle. Is that what you prefer?” he asks, stirring the sizzling ground lamb.  
"I don’t really mind,” she shrugs.  
“Except not Betsy.”  
“No, not Betsy. You can take your pick of the other dozen nicknames.”  
“Thirteen nicknames! Are you sure?”  
“Who me? Sure? How could I be sure? Why would I know?” she mocks. “Why, I do believe I must have picked that number out of thin air, Dean!”  
The sounds of Elle saying his name sends a thrill across his shoulders. He stares at her face for a moment, watching her eyes.  
She downs tools and counts them off on her fingers: “Elle, Ellie, Lisa, Liza, Eliza, Libby, Liz, Lizzy, Beth, Bette, Betty, Betsy and Bess. And Lisbeth at a stretch.”  
“You mind if I take my time picking one?” he asks lowly. She looks at the objects between them, replaying the question in her head. _You can try them out one by one if you like_ , she thinks, flashing him a glance.  
“Whichever you like,” she answers, catching the colour of his green eyes. A beat passes. He goes back to stirring and she takes the saucepan to the burner farthest from his, hoping he doesn't notice the rest of her jiggling while she quickly stirs the flour into the melted butter, then slowly adds the milk. But he doesn't notice the rest of her, just her hands and arms, the way the double-wrapped leather band of her watch makes them seem so fine.

Once she gets the sauce off the stove, letting it cool a few minutes, she checks the meat and declares it done. He steps away, and goes back to leaning on his chair until further instruction. She shuffles a few things around, putting dishes into the sink, and soon adds some eggs to the milky mixture, followed by the cheeses. Dean soon decides that nothing he can think to say is worth saying, or it’s embarrassing, or it’s too forward. _She’s got me winded,_ he thinks. So he says nothing at all, wondering if that’s even worse.  
The time quickly passes for him, blatantly watching her complete the dish, looking at her movements, the space between her waist and her arms, the curve at the top of her legs and the way her t-shirt rests above it, her petite feet, the small amounts of softness occasionally revealed behind the V-neck of her shirt, her neat ears, her sweet concentration on the food she’s making for the house… In those moments his mind makes a passing glance at the facts, vaguely aware of how much more platonic their interaction should be… but his consciousness answers loud and clear: _Fuck that, she’s feel too good. Don’t be the ass that let her get away._


	5. Where Dean Shamelessly Flirts

Elizabeth eventually asks “Could you open the oven door for me?”  
Dean jumps up, ready to help again. She slides the moussaka onto the shelf and sets the timer.  
“Righto. Dishes!” she thinks aloud.  
“No! Nope! Uh-uh momma,” Dean says, shepherding her away from the sink. She’s so electric to his presence that she doesn’t even let him touch her.  
“A drink!” he proclaims. “Let’s have a drink instead!” _I can’t think straight with you all busy, I’ll be damned if you get wet too._  
“What?! It’s noon.”  
“C’mon, we should talk” – _God give me a reason_ – “let’s have a drink. Celebrate your new job here.”  
“My month-old new job?” _You dodgy bastard, get off it._ “Mmmm, how about a coffee?”  
“That’s what I meant.”  
“Pfft. Bullshit.”  
And Dean grinned at her blunt reply. _Excellent_ , he thought, _she’s feisty!_  
“Let me make it, to be fair,” he offers, pulling out a chair.  
“Sure. Strong and sweet please,” she requests, taking the offer. He pushes her chair in for her.  
“Yes ma’am,” he says smoothly behind her ear, making her skin prickle.  
As Dean makes the coffee (doing his best not to bash around the kitchen but instead sexily prepare a hot sexy beverage like a sexy, manly man) Elizabeth does her best not to stare, but instead take in the other terribly, terribly interesting points of the kitchen. She does an admirable job, considering the circumstances. She can’t help but notice his forearms with their gentle ripples, but then she considers the tiles on the wall, _what a retro colour they are_ … her eyes rest on the nape of his neck… _how sweet is that patch behind his ear_ … and his short brown hair that leads her eyes down to his collar… _such broad shoulders, that frame_ … there’s a very nice chair opposite her, _what workmanship, hmm, yes, very sturdy_ … his hands work deftly, and look strong, with a strapped and buckled watch… _strapped_ … … _this table wood has such a nice pattern, gee, wow_ … and finally her gaze lands on his backside… _well that is very much there. Yessir. Good job, jeans_... and then she gives up even trying. _How does someone have such a perfectly portioned face?  I can't even._

“Here you go,” the coffees arrive, interrupting Elizabeth’s lovely meandering. “Hey, you have Cass’s cell number, right?” Dean asks, taking out his own as he sits and Elizabeth nods. “You should have mine too, just in case,” he offers, handing the phone across the table.  
She takes it saying “You sure?”  
“Yeah! Really, shoulda been done weeks ago.”  
Elizabeth types her number into the keypad, and pranks her own phone, hanging up after a few rings. She slides the phone back to him, trying not to read into the gesture too much.  
“Wait!” he jumps, remembering the cake. “This stuff is awesome. I can’t believe there’s any left.” About a third of the chocolate cake remains.  
“That’s coz I keep my own stash hidden,” Elizabeth notes, tapping her nose.  
“Clever woman.”  
Elizabeth notices he doesn’t make any silly comments about how she should or shouldn’t hide cake. She considers that his particular type may be less typical than originally assumed. She accurately halves what’s in front of them, taking one of the large slices for herself.

For no particular reason, Elle’s inspired to challenge him with an uncouth demonstration of gluttony, and ploughs into her piece, taking lots of messy bites. Dean tries hard, very hard, not to let his imagination run. She makes noises of pleasure, hamming it up, teasing and mocking him at the same time. “Is that good?” he asks. “Mmmm, tho goo. Omathing… Mm! You?” she gestures to his own piece.  
With slightly too much enthusiasm, he barely hesitates to take up the dare, fitting his whole piece of cake into his head in one go. She doesn’t pause, but she does raise her eyebrows. “It’s so yummy” is what he tries to say, but his jaw can’t much move, so he mostly says it with his eyebrows. Elizabeth swallows what she currently has, wiping the corners of her mouth.  
“Wow, that looks really unattractive,” she reflects, feigning mild surprise, and takes a modest bite from the edge of her piece, chewing delicately.  
Dean rests his forearms on the table, his whole head wrestling with his food. Even through his contortions, lips barely able to meet, she can read his expression. Son of a bitch.  
Elizabeth’s smile is delicious and smug. She continues to nibble, watching Dean, enjoying the equalising nature of such an unsightly moment for him.  
He holds up one finger, asking for a moment, then stands to take a few steps away from the table to finish the cake with a little dignity.   
Elizabeth looks him over, taking a mental snapshot.  She takes a long, noisy sip of coffee. “Is this a metaphor for your decision making skills in general?” she enquires.  
He holds up another finger, possibly the middle finger, and keeps working.  
She waits and listens as his voice becomes easier to hear.   
“Uh… om… uh, uh muh god.” He puffs. She can see him stretch his jaw for release, tilting his head. “Holy crap.”  
Dean returns to his chair, leans in and wags his finger at her. “You…” he starts, Elle raising an eyebrow at him. “You’re a stinker.”  
Elizabeth bursts into laughter, “Ha! A stinker?!”  
“You’re a miscreant,” finger still wagging. “You know what you did.”  
“Gee, miscreant’s a bit strong. A rascal, at best!”  
“Diabolical!”  
“Whoa! Come on... naughty. _Barely_.”  
“Nn- wait, ‘naughty’?” he considers, eyebrow raised, holding back a smile. “Naughty. The prosecution rests.”  
“C’mon, I just… opened a gate, you _ran_ through it!”  
“I _followed_ you through it. You’re a bad influence.”  
“‘Followed me’? Please. I did nothing. I merely lay down the gauntlet,” she defends, still sipping. “ _You_ picked it up.”  
“Oh no,” he works his tongue around his cheeks, “no, you dared. Don’t dare a red-blooded Texan boy. It’s practically an order.”  
“Blame others for your decisions do you?”  
Dean narrows his eyes at her. “Malicious… nefarious… wench.”  
She's trying not to laugh, but can't help her shoulders bouncing… “You usually this verbose when you’re pissed?”  
“No… you’re inspiring.” He relaxes in his chair, looking at her again, the apple of her cheeks, waiting for moments when she looks at him…  
Elizabeth finishes her drink, puts down her mug and rests back in her chair, considering him again, that fine jawline, his amazing mouth... “You’d follow me?” she repeats quietly.  
“Closely,” he says, unflinching, returning the thrill.

He leans forward, and opens his mouth to lay some brilliant trap, but his phone beeps. Sam needs him at the warehouse.  
“Son of a bitch,” Dean moans, “I gotta go.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah, there’s a nest that needs busting. Sam needs some help.” He packs his phone away, and finishes his coffee. They both stand, trying to think of more to say before they break company.  
“I'm glad I finally met you,” Dean confesses.  
“Me too, even if Cass said I shouldn't.”  
“What, why?”  
“Because of your trouble with women.”  
“Sure,” Dean agrees, not sure what she really means. “Well, yeah, you seem to have come along. You’re doing well, too.”  
“Why shouldn't I?”  
Dean realises that something shady is afoot: Cass is playing someone.  
“You know, being by yourself, pretty much. Away from home,” he covers.  
“Yeah, I s’pose,” she shrugs. He goes for an oldie but a goodie.  
“It’s been a pleasure Miss Elizabeth, uh…”  
“Henry”  
“Miss Henry,” he finishes, extending his hand. “Dean Winchester.”  
She takes it, cautious of the contact, and means to speak, but finds that… she doesn't. They hold hands, lingering on each other…  
“Pleasure,” she murmurs, finally exhaling. Elizabeth breaks her hand away, lest she suggest something more.   
Dean gets himself out of there before he actually starts it.


	6. Stood Up

Elizabeth sits at a library table. One plate cleaned of moussaka and some greens sits to her right, an empty plate of apple pie beyond the paperback she’s reading again. Those favourite texts she’d borrowed yesterday were still on her desk, waiting their turn.

Once Dean had left, Elizabeth had done the dishes and swept the floors while doing her best to recount their meeting, their time together, as accurately as possible. She wanted to catch every word, every look, and commit it to memory. (She skipped recalling the part where she’d told herself she wouldn’t have a thing with, or for, this guy.) But at some point she ran out of mindless occupation, and thought it would be a bit ridiculous to lie on her bed and swoon over a man she’d just met. Or not... At that point, she’d had her lone moment of clarity: _I am doing such a shit job of handling this_.

When she’d gone back to her room, she’d noticed the Supernatural paperback series and remembered the womanising character, Dean, and thought it might be a good substitute for getting herself completely swept away by someone she hardly knows. _A ha ha_.  
It made things completely worse. The sex scenes, though epically clunky, were fuel enough. So far, she’d bumped into two doorways, put her slippers on the wrong feet, and reheated both courses one handed.

She’d settled herself down for dinner at 7:30, blanket across her lap, bottle of wine and a glass readied, and ploughed on, expecting to be awkwardly interrupted by Castiel.  
At the end of the third book, Elizabeth looks at her watch. 9pm. Castiel hadn't called. _So I take it our meeting is scratched._  
She rinses the dishes, finishes off her glass and takes herself off to bed with the next volume.


	7. Where Sam falls down some stairs

At 3:30am, Elizabeth is woken by a very unfamiliar sound: her phone is ringing. She props herself up a bit, squinting her eyes at the brightness in the dark. She flicks on her bedside lamp and decides to answer.  
“Hello?”  
“Elle?”  
“Cass?”  
“No, it’s Dean.”  
“Dean! Hey, hi! What’s wrong?”  
“Uh, that nest job was kinda big. Do you think you could set up some first aid stuff for us?”  
“Sure, yeah. Anything in particular?  
“There’s, aaaah, some blood. Lots of blood.”  
“Okay. Where do you want it?”  
“Sam’s room.”  
“How soon?”  
“Thirty minutes.”  
“No worries. See you then.”  
 _OK, be sensible. First thing’s first, get dressed, no shower. Maybe go some mouthwash though…_

Within 25 minutes, Elizabeth is sitting by Sam’s bed and had collected literally everything she could think of: the entire first aid case, opened, alcohol and saline wash ready; two jugs of water and a few glasses; the electric kettle, filled and boiling; a sewing kit (from the medicine cabinet, which she took as a sign) laid out on some paper towel, the thread and needle pre-boiled; an extra blanket; some extra sheets; two towels, one wet; and a couple of peanut butter sandwiches.  
She hunches over, elbows on bouncing knees, watching the clock and hoping they get home okay.  
Faintly, she hears a car in the garage. She opens the bedroom door, listening, wondering what she should do.  
“Dean? Do you need help?”  
She thought she heard him call “Elle!” and she ran towards his voice, through the garage door and found Dean struggling down the steps with a barely walking man.  
“Lil help!” he grunts.  
“He’s too big,” she mutters and disappears.  
“What? Elle! Come and help me!” he yells. _What the hell kinda reaction is that?_  
Elizabeth quickly returns with a single bed sheet, which she unfurls and lays on the ground, saying “Lay him down.” Dean quickly slips Sam around and they both gently place him as squarely on the sheet as they can. Dean moves his back to the door, picking up the corners by Sam’s shoulders, and Elizabeth collects handfuls of sheet by his ankles.  
“Okay?” he checks.  
“Yeah, go.”  
They shuffle back down to Sam’s room. Elizabeth asks a few questions, just to calm herself.  
“Do you know why he’s unconscious?”  
“Bump to the head, I think.”  
“What do you want to do first?”  
“He needs some stitches.”  
She started worrying about blood loss, knowing she had no idea what to do with that situation.

They bashed through Sam’s door and 1-2-3’d him onto the bed.  
Elizabeth says “You get his jacket off” as she works on his laces.  
“This water boiled?”  
“Yep, needle and thread too.”  
“How did you know?”  
She looked at him now and shrugged. “Maybe I'm a drama queen,” she says, offhand.  
He’s bent over his little brother, working on his shirt buttons, and smiles at her. “You can over-react any time you like.”  
Dean yanks up Sam’s shirt to show a red gash below his ribs, at least five inches long, surrounded by dark and bright smears of red. Elizabeth swears and while Dean collects what he needs from the table, she flushes it out by squirting some saline, wipes around the wound with a wet towel and tries to bring the skin together. With both her hands either side of the wound, she still barely touches the edges of this guy. Her eyes run over the distance from her hands to his belt, to his collar bone, to even his belly button. _Good grief, that is some real estate._  
Dean turns back, gloved up with needle and thread ready, and takes a moment to appreciate her help.  
Goddamn, look at that. “You’re ready.”  
“Yeah,” she says, not looking up.  
“You’re getting to be an asset, you know.”  
“Oh stop,” she plays dryly.  
Dean begins stitching, making small neat loops and knotting each one.

Elle lets him get started, deciding not to interrupt just yet. But after a while, she tries some banter: “Well, he’s a cutie. What happened to you?”  
“I'm the smart one, buttercup,” he smirks.  
“ _You’re_ the _smart_ one?! Oh shit…” breathes Elle sarcastically, “Poor Sam. How does he get on, being, you know-“  
“Look you,” Dean points.  
“ _Princess_ Buttercup, thanks.”  
“Listen Princess,” Dean says, momentarily distracted by the reference. He’s clearly enjoying himself, but unable to think of a good come-back. “…He gets on just dandy.”  
“So brave.”

She lets him work, but soon, with no news from Castiel, Elle can’t help herself from wanting answers from someone.  
“So, how did this happen?”  
“He fell down some stairs,” Dean lied.  
“This is from stairs?”  
“There was something sticking out on the way down.”  
“Really?...” _Looks like a slice to me, not a rip. Hunt abusive husbands, do you?_  
Dean stops to shake out his cramping hands. He’s halfway done.  
“You want me to do some?” Elle offers.  
“You think you can?” he asks, a little surprised.  
“Yeah, sure,” she assures, getting up for another pair of gloves. Dean lays down the work and shifts to take up her job. “I'm a stitcher. And you know how they stitch up the turkeys after stuffing the stuffing? My turkeys write me letters.”  
Elizabeth gets herself comfortable and begins, carefully copying Dean’s process. He scrutinises her effort, but can find no fault. Once done, she gently wipes it down, dabs on some antiseptic and lays some adhesive gauge over the line.

“How long do you think he'll be out?” she asks, taking off her gloves.  
“Ah, who knows. He'll be alright.” Elle pulls down Sam’s t shirt and drapes the spare blanket over him, deciding to skip the sheet. She gingerly lifts an eyelid and sees his pupils contract, feeling a little relief.  
Meanwhile Dean is having a proper look at the desk; he pours himself a glass of water and eventually his eyes hit the food. “Goddamn, Elizabeth, food too? This is Sam’s favourite you know.”  
“Yeah, you crazy Americans with your peanut butter. I had a little time spare,” she shrugs. “Hey, what about you? Any scratches?”  
“Nah, just some bruising I think. Not even ice-worthy,” he said, taking a bite.  
“Then you should go have a shower and sleep. I'll hang out here in case he wakes.”  
“You don’t have to do that. I can-“  
“You can tag with me once you've cleaned up,” she ordered, throwing the dry towel at him, “but I’d prefer that you sleep.”  
“Yes ma’am,” he smiled. His mind flashed an image of kissing her, such a natural thing to do. Instead he watched her curl up on the soft chair with a glass of the hot water and he said “This is awesome, all this,” gesturing at the desk.  
“No worries. Just glad I didn't miss anything useful.”  
“No, you, uh, you nailed it,” he marvelled. “Nailed it.”  
Elizabeth did her best to breathe steadily, elated to have pleased Dean, and exhilarated from the morning’s events. He put his hand on the door handle and paused. She kept her eyes on Sam, not moving a muscle, and let him go.


	8. Surprise, surprise...

“Elle?” Dean places his hand on her shoulder, but gets nothing.  
“Elle?” he whispers again, hand on her ankle. She seems out to the world. Sam has rolled over, apparently shifting from unconsciousness to asleep, and Dean is half considering carrying Elizabeth back to her room. Completely inappropriate, of course, but its running through his mind.  
He tries one more time. “Elle, you can wake up,” he says gently, stroking her hand.  
She blinks her eyes open and looks at him, not moving. After a moment though, she breathes in sharply and raises her head, realising she’s actually awake.  
“Mmm-Hi!” she says, stretching high. “Nnnnngod, what time is it?”  
“Eleven-thirty.”  
She sees Sam still on the bed. “Ugh, so stiff!” she whispers, unfolding herself. “Did you sleep?”  
Dean moves back to sit on the end of the bed. “Yeah, got a solid four hours. Good as new,” he says with a hushed voice.  
“Excellent,” she smiles.  
“Sam can sleep fine now. I’m making breakfast,” he offers.  
“Yeah? Do I have to take a pay cut?” Elle jokes, standing and testing her legs.  
“You’ve earned it,” he bows slightly, opening the door for her. “Princess?”  
“Princess Buttercup,” she corrects quietly, raising a finger.  
“As you wish,” he whispers.  
She smiles ruefully, shakes her head and puts her hands over her face. _Fuck me_ , she realises, _I haven’t a hope._

…

Elizabeth had insisted that Dean let her take a shower. She couldn't bear to sit down, with him, all manky with morning breath and yesterday’s clothes. “I'll be eight minutes,” she promised.  
A quick shower, some hair retying, mouth washing, a fresh singlet, one sweatshirt, one wishful glance at a make-up bag and eight minutes later…

“Right, sorry. Wow, that smells delicious…” Elizabeth pulls up, “Is that oven roasted bacon?”  
“Woah, shit,” Dean says, taken by surprise, “You’re here!”  
“Yeah, I'm here,” she confirms, confused.  
“You took eight minutes.”  
“Yeah…”  
“…I just don’t know what to do with you,” he shook his head, smiling, hands on hips.  
Elizabeth took him in; grey t-shirt, jeans, clean-shaven, those cheeky eyes and…  
“I'm sure you'll think of something,” she mutters, heading for a chair.  
Dean takes a moment to close his eyes and bite his bottom lip, then hops to it, collecting items for the meal as he announces “OKAAAY! You get extra rashers for spotting the oven roasting, plus a fried egg on toast with pan-fried tomatoes and mushrooms. You'll notice OJ on your table, ready to be freshly poured, maple syrup and, in mere moments, a nice, steaming, hot, sweet and black cup-o-joe.”  
Elle is already sitting and, as Dean joins, she her hardly knows what to look at. She is rapt at the mere idea of him cooking for her.  
“Wow! Wow… I… I'm stunned,” she says, while also unsure what to say. “I mean, I'm sure you’re a very capable cook, I'm sure you know what you’re doing, and this isn't, like, a risky adventure, but I'm still surprised… pleasantly surprised.”  
Dean takes a moment. “Did that work out how you planned?”  
“I wish I’d planned…?”  
“Me too.”  
“How about I compliment you at the end?”  
“I look forward to it.”  
Elle picks up her first piece of bacon and as she bites into it a piece of crackling snaps way, flying across the table. “That’s 10 points right there,” she mumbles through the delicious bacon.  
“Mm hmm,” Dean nods, mouth already loaded.  
Elizabeth decides she’s going to try not to worry too much about herself. _You’re make-up free, for starters, so don’t go getting ahead of yourself on that front. Just enjoy the meal, most definitely not a hard task. Don’t embarrass yourself. Don’t stare…_  
Dean tucks into his meal, having been up for an hour already and too hungry to think about much else at this stage. _Omnomnomnom omnomnom…_

It did give Elizabeth time to think of what to say though. The challenging part was that the meal, although very satisfying and delicious, was also not extraordinary. He hadn't done anything fancy with anything, besides maybe the bacon, and she knew he knew it. She was also not one for setting laborious precedents.

At some point they’re both enjoying coffees again, merely 20 hours since their first, leaning back in their chairs. Last night they had been opposite each other, with a good view. This time, Dean’s chair is at the end of the table, Elizabeth’s on his right.  
“Well,” she starts, shifting in her seat, “I had bought breakfasts for three weeks straight, from New York to Colorado. That was the best.”  
“Really?”  
“Without a doubt. The bread always seems to be either a surfboard or a recycled sponge. This bread was really, very bread. And the eggs, were they chicken eggs?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Wow, those are the best. And, I can tell, that orange juice was definitely from one of the top two shelves at the store. Probably the second or third most expensive-”  
“Okay-“  
“Also, you know how much I enjoyed yesterday’s coffee from you. This is at least as good as similar to that, possibly the same, so this is really nice. Consistency is hard to create.”  
“You’re gonna hurt my feelings soon,” he threatens, half meaning it.  
“Oh, well…” Elle gives, “I can’t have that.” She looks at him sideways, gauging his honesty. “It is the best breakfast I've had in America. I've been waiting – waiting – for oven roasted bacon. No-one’s done it… The company’s not bad either,” she adds, putting down her coffee.  
“Really? Have you… shared many breakfasts since you got here?” he asks, alluding to something not breakfast.  
“Oh, um, no actually,” she reported, “but that would mean you are better than my own company. A compliment, yes?”  
Dean squints, trying to decide if it is.  
“Go back to the ‘best brekky in America’ part.”  
He smiles dumbly in mock reminiscence, “Mmmm, warm memories.”  
“Take ‘em home,” she says.  
And they take a moment to smile at themselves.

“Can I ask you something?” Elizabeth says, pushing her chair out a bit to turn toward him. “What did Cass tell you about me?”  
Dean shifts his chair likewise, wanting see her more easily. He tries to plan his answer delicately. “Not much. Just that you've had a rough time with assholes. He suggested we give you some space for a while. You seem to be recovering really well though.”  
“Yeah, you mentioned that,” she commented, “thanks.” _What a load of shit. I should be leaving, today, but damned if I feel like it._  
“No problem...” and it occurs to him likewise: “What did he tell you about us?”  
“Uh, I can barely recall,” she tried, “he said you were both very good looking and hard to resist. Or something. Maybe good to resist your hard looks… And big. No! …Tall? He didn't even give me your names, initially.” She finds herself looking at the seat of his chair, imagining her foot playing with the wood.  
“Will I ever get a straight answer outta you?” he smirks, wishing, so much, that they were beyond playing coy already.  
“He said you were thoughtful and generous,” she said, levelling her gaze on him. “That you were no threat to me. And that you both ate a lot.”  
“Ha, well, Cass sure paints a picture,” he said, breaking eye contact to rub the scare on his forearm.

Sam strays into the room, patting down his hair, slurring a “Morning.”  
“Sam! Hi!” Elizabeth blurts, “Here, take a seat!”  
“Hey, thanks. Nice to meet you!”  
“Yeah you too!” They’re both all smiles, instantly relaxed. Dean barely has a chance to stand up and join in.  
“You want some juice?” she offers, and he nods yes. “How you feeling? All your dots connecting okay?” She collects a glass from the shelves.  
“Yeah, I think so. That nest got a little outta hand-” but he catches Dean frowning and twitching his head subtly “- but accidents happen I suppose.”  
“You know, concussion is supposed to be much worse than people think it is. You really should take it easy for a few weeks.”  
“That would be nice,” he says, taking a sip. “Hey, where’d you get your sweatshirt?” Sam asks, noticing the big ‘Stanford’ across the front.  
“Oh, a second-hand store, I'm afraid. I don’t even have one from my own uni.”  
“Yeah? Where’d you go?”  
“RMIT – a tech institute in Melbourne.”  
“What’d you do?”...

Dean wanted to listen, but couldn't hear past his own sooking. _Look at them chumming it up! Holy crap! They’re, like, fucking girlfriends already. They’re both so freaking… educated! Goddammit!!_ His ears retune to Elizabeth’s voice after a bit…  
“…How’s your cut? Itchy?”  
“Nope, feels about as good as it can.”  
“Elizabeth helped,” Dean chipped in, “she was awesome. A complete star – calm, thorough, so well planned. You’d have fainted from a nerd hard-on.”  
Sam and Elle both jarred a little on the last part, and Dean took a moment to both feel stupid and remember to punch himself in the head later.  
“Did you leave the dressings on my desk?” Sam asks her, clearly impressed.  
“You shoulda seen what she’d laid out for us, Sammy! Blankets, gauze, towels, needle and thread – the kettle! – she helped carry you in too. I'm telling ya Sam, between her cooking and her stitching skills, we’re gunna have to get a Green Card going.”  
“You stitched me up too?” Sam checks, disbelieving.  
“Oh, you should see my soft toys,” Elle says, shyly.  
“Awesome,” Sam laughs. “Well, I just wanted to get a few calories,” he explains as he gingerly rises and collects some bacon from the bench top beside Elle, “and I'm going to get some more rest. Pleasure to meet you Elizabeth, really.”  
“Yeah, me too,” she replies, both of them genuinely smiling.  
 _Aw crap,_ thinks Dean. _They’re practically engaged_.  
Sam shuffles off with a quick wave and they wait for him to go, looking at their feet for a while.

Elle walks to the table, collecting a plate but Dean meets her there, taking the same one.  
“No, what is it with you and dishes?” he cries, “I'm doing breakfast!”  
“You did breakfast, let me clean up!” she says, still holding the plate. He looks down at her, enjoying their closeness, hoping she does too. She looks at the space between his chin and his chest, struggling to remember what she’s doing. They chicken out. Simultaneously, they both begin to say something concessional, and surrender, letting the plate go. It falls onto the corner of the table, smashing noisily, cutlery bouncing about the floor. Elizabeth jerks up her foot, hoping to not be stabbed by a steak knife. Dean goes to move her but doesn't get a chance to make contact, so small is the event. They both look at the mess. Elle goes to collect the pieces but Dean puts his hand on her arm, the only sensible gesture to stop her since they’re so close.  
“No, it can wait,” he says, insisting.  
Elle takes step back, not out of reach, but so she can see him better, think better. “Wait for what?” she asks gently.  
He’s caught out. He holds out a hand and begins his sentence “You-”, but she catches it, holds it gently. He feels like he’s falling as he looks at her, unconsciously bringing himself closer. Elizabeth steps in, just inches away, and gives his hand a quick squeeze before she tiptoes up and plants a soft, hopeful, full beat of a kiss on his lips. They both open their eyes again, Elle unsure of what to expect, but as she lowers herself, he matches her and leans in for another one, squeezing her hand before letting it go and collecting her by the back of her ribs. He collects her other shoulder, closing the space between them, both of them running their minds over the feeling. They sway back on her for a moment, and then breathe in together and Elizabeth wraps one hand around that hugging arm, keeping it in place, the other around the back of his head, holding on for dear life.


	9. ...Surprise

Dean’s name echoes from above the war room.  
Dean should be able to hear it, but his ears aren’t working.  
“Dean?” the call comes, getting closer.  
Elle’s ears are better connected. She opens her eyes, breaking away a little. “Dean,” she says quietly, her lips brushing against his as she speaks, “Cass is calling you.”  
“Let him call,” he dismisses, eyes still closed. “Say something else. More you on my mouth please.”  
“What should I say?” she asks, running her hand from his hair to his chin, wishing they had more time.  
“Some sort of spell that spirits that fucking angel away.”  
“What?”  
“I really, really don’t want to see, let alone talk to, anyone else right now.”  
“Dean,” she says, conscious Cass in almost in the kitchen, “he’s lied to both of us about me,” and that is what makes Dean’s eyes open, his brain back in the room.  
“DEAN!” suddenly Cass is right there, “Dean get off her!” Castiel grabs Deans right arm with his own, high and near his arm pit, and lifts him backwards as he snaps at Dean’s face. “I told you to leave her alone!” Elizabeth is shocked and does her best to say nothing, putting her hand over her own mouth.  
Dean is thoroughly pissed, more than is necessary, but he does his best not to become violent. He breathes a moment, tries to ignore the heat from his arm, then glares at Castiel with the fire of a thousand suns.  
“Castiel, I say this as a friend. What the goddam fuck in hell do you think you’re doing?”  
Castiel releases his arm, goes to raise a finger in Dean’s face, such is his fury, but thinks better of it.  
“I asked you to leave her alone.”  
“Well, she kissed me Cass. What fool wouldn’t kiss her back?”  
“One who can follow instructions.”  
Dean raises his eyebrows, his face giving away his thoughts – _oh you don’t fucking give me sass right now_ – but Cass cuts him off.  
“It might be dangerous Dean, to both of you,” he explains. Dean flattens his expression, defiant but conceding some ground.  
“Where do you want to start?” Elizabeth asks, cutting the tension with a soft escape. “Sit down Cass. Let me clean up a bit, and you can tell me what you found out.”

Cass sits at the end of the table; Elizabeth collects a brush and shovel from the cupboard and removes the broken plate; Dean begins to pace. He walks with a hand on his hip, the other wiping his face, trying to get a handle on why he’s so upset so quickly, trying to capture the speed of their connection, how soon he’s gotten this committed to her, and acknowledging, finally, that he’s ignored its unusual nature so he could enjoy it without conflict… _I've known it’s weird the whole goddamn time. Why the hell not?! As if ‘awesome’ would not be normal for me!... If I’ve put her in danger because I can’t control myself…_  
Elle returns and sits in her seat, Dean slams himself down opposite her.  
“Okay Cass, who am I? Cleopatra? Rose Tyler? Arwyn?” Elle begins, hoping to lighten the tone.  
“I'm sorry Elizabeth, I’d much rather talk about why you’re here,” Cass says, slightly disappointed.  
“I'm sorry,” she replies honestly, “you say what you want to say.”  
“I don’t think you’re going to like it,” he sighs.  
“Just spit it out Cass,” Dean demands, “You've screwed us around long enough.”  
Dean is a little surprised to see Castiel’s compassionate reaction of soft eyes and a sad sigh. But the penny drops quickly for Dean and blinks as it hits him in the gut: _Holy hell, what’s he about to say?_ With a heavy chest, Castiel attempts to tell the facts.  
“Dean, do you remember that bar where we witnessed a cherub angel connecting those two men?”  
“Yeah, the uh, the delivery woman?”  
“Yes, that event. Well, that’s how you and Elizabeth are connected-”  
“Wait, an angel?” Elizabeth interrupted, “since when are you guys religious?”  
“I'm sorry, Elle. I forgot I hadn't told you already,” Cass apologises, turning to her. “Sam and Dean are brothers who hunt supernatural beings, like their parents before them, and I am an angel of th-”  
“That’s a book, Cass. That’s a crappy paperback series,” Elle retorts, slightly annoyed at the silliness of it. Dean has closed his eyes, shaking his head, thinking _Don’t just blurt it out you dope!_ Elle goes on: “I've read it twice already. What are you doing passing off-“  
“It’s true,” Dean says gravely, cutting her off. “It’s all true. It was written by a guy who didn't know he was a prophet. That’s why the writing it so shit.”  
Elizabeth frowns. “This… okay, this is not me giving you the benefit of my doubt. You’re getting the benefit of my denial, okay? …Do you have proof?”  
“Yes,” Cass replies, “but can I tell you more first?”  
“Sure! Not that one depends upon the other, or anything! Go, spin your tale!” she says, beginning to get frustrated and worried.  
“Please Elle, I know I'm late with my news, but please try not to get angry with me,” Castiel pleads, hoping he isn't about to break what has become a most beloved friendship.  
“I'm scared Cass! This is a normal behaviour for scared,” Elle explains. Dean desperately wishes the table was smaller so he could hold Elizabeth’s hand, half for his own comfort. Through his own experience, he knows how devastating heaven-sent connections can be.  
“So…,” Cass continued, “you are ‘true loves’, for want of a better term. Which is a good thing. It might explain your connection to each other. I recognised Elizabeth’s link to you, Dean, a few weeks ago, in the diner she worked.” He turns to Elizabeth to explain: “Usually, the connection is ordered from heaven; an angel is at the meeting and makes the connection happen. But I knew you because of my closeness to Dean. But I also suspected that others might recognise you too, possibly others who aren't friends. You were, truly, in immediate danger from regular people too. So I chose to bring you here, where I knew you would be safe, and took the risk that you’d meet.”  
Dean could see why Castiel felt it was a risk. For Dean, those who are close can be a weakness, they can become leverage, and he knows there are ‘non-regular’ people who would use her against him. He listened to the explanation with measured anger, waiting to hear it all.  
“In truth, that’s what happened a few nights ago,” Castiel recounts, this time to no one in particular. He is currently wishing he weren't in arm’s reach of Dean. “A demon who’d seen Dean before, in hell I suspect, recognised Elizabeth and…” he looked at Dean earnestly, “I'm confident I killed him before he had a chance to tell anyone.”  
“How did he know?” Dean asked, barely keeping it together.  
“He said he’s tasted your blood,” Castiel informed.  
“Why did you even let her out Cass?! If you knew this could happen?! How could you-” Dean cut himself off, seeing the futility of berating him. Castiel was clearly guilt-ridden over the close call. Dean kneaded the palm and wrist of his right hand with the other hand’s thumb, his leg bouncing under the table. His fear and frustrations were beginning to show.  
“Why shouldn't we meet Cass?” Elizabeth asked, going along with the premise for the moment. “Why is meeting your ‘true love’ a bad thing? What happens if there’s no angel there?”  
“Nothing, I think,” Cass decided, “I haven’t heard of destined lovers becoming connected after meeting, uh, ‘unsupervised’, as such. But the reason it’s not great for Dean is, well…” he hesitates, not wanting to give her the bad news.  
“You can be used against us,” Dean reveals. “We have a lot of enemies. If they were to find out about you - a Winchester finding their ‘true love’ - they would use you against us.” He glances at her, but mostly stares at the table, trying not to let his mind wonder through how that could go.

Elizabeth took a moment and then muttered, “That doesn't sound good for me either.” Both men looked at her, full of regret. She shrugged, a little too lightly, inspiring Dean to say “You should show her something, Cass. Give her some proof. It’s heavy, but I can’t see how she'll not… you know… eventually…”  
“He’s right, Elizabeth. It’s most likely you'll be with us forever-“  
“Wwut?”  
He turned to her and deliberately said “I'm going to show you what I mean,” before placing two fingers against her forehead, interrupting her next words...  
He shows her too much. He shows her everything. When he did this to Sam, or Dean, they usually gasped and grunted through the discomfort, they resisted the information. But Elizabeth swims through it, and within moments is crying, tears running freely from her closed eyes, her whole head leaning against Castiel’s fingers for support at first, and then pushing against the awfulness. He struggles against the weight, feeling rolling pangs of empathy for her experience.  
When he pulls away, Elizabeth catches her own head in her hands, and lets out a heartbroken sob. Shaken by her suffering, Dean runs to Elle’s chair, turning it out to face him as he kneels on the ground. He holds his hands up beside her shoulders, saying her name, asking if she’s ok. Elle quickly reaches out and pulls him in by his neck, wrapping desperately around him, under his arms, weeping into his neck. Dean feels his face break, beginning to share her grief, but he pulls himself back for her and begins stroking her back and neck. Their sudden intimacy feels completely natural.  
“Elle, it’s ok… It’s ok… it’s all done… Elle? Baby? Hey,” he soothes, trying to bring her back, “it’s the past, okay? We’re here, we’re fine.” She has him flush against her, between her legs while she sits, hugging him out of grief, regret, relief, thanks…

Elizabeth takes her time, feeling his presence, capturing her good fortune... She begins to breathe properly and after a moment pulls her face away to cover it with her hands, wiping away the tears. She takes Dean’s head, holding him in front of her so she can look into his eyes. Slowly, she tilts his head down so she can kiss him on the forehead, while he tries to make light of it in his mind, lest he come undone from such a maternal gesture. Then she kisses him properly on the mouth, a full, warm, thankful kiss that, after a lingering moment, moves them both, mouths working to redefine it, Elle’s hand caressing his neck, Dean’s arm sliding down and pulling her in, Elle breathing deeply in sweet surprise, Dean humming over her softness… Cass’s throat clearing.  
“Yeah!” Dean blurts, breaking away, “Sorry.” He gets up from the floor, planting a warm kiss near her ear before going back to his own seat. The comfort has calmed him a little, his temperature dropping noticeably. “Best I sit here for the rest of class.”

Elle presses her palms to her eyes and has a drink of juice. _Holy hell, good God… he’s so good._  
“Cass,” she leaned in, “You knew this to begin with. I mean, you’re explaining actions of weeks ago. What did you find out yesterday?”  
“Elle, what I found out doesn't exactly improve the situation,” Cass reported, trying to cover his emotion from their display. “It was mostly on a hunch, but I noticed your birth date was the same as Dean’s.”  
“January 24th? Nice vintage,” Dean winks. “Surely that’s just coincidence though.”  
“Wow, that’s…” Elle begins, quickly realising what Cass is describing.  
“Her birthday is actually January 25th, but Australia is a day ahead.”  
“Woah. That’s pretty cool… isn't it?” Dean offered. “Right?”  
“Elizabeth, would you please tell me what you know about your birth?” Castiel requests.  
“Uh, well, it’s odd. For starters I was born at sea, in the Indian Ocean. My parents were archaeologists and were moving a large artefact home apparently. There was a fire on the boat and they both died. About 20 people escaped. So I grew up with relatives near Melbourne.”  
“Your parents,” Castiel elaborates, “studied Biblical Mythology. It’s very unlikely that you and Dean are joined through the normal, uh, methods, not matter how well suited you are. I fear that something about this was orchestrated. It’s proving very difficult to get clear answers though. I'm finding a lot of dead ends.”  
Dean’s light-hearted banter, and his mood for it, has slipped away. He feels a familiar hot rage resurfacing. _They gotta fuck around with her family too?..._  
“What part do you think was arranged? I mean, coordinating a pregnancy is pretty tricky, I imagine,” Elizabeth asked.  
“It can be done,” Castiel confirmed, “but really, I think it’s everything. According to government records, your birthplace is almost the exact polar opposite of Lawrence, Texas, which is Dean’s birthplace-“  
“Goddammit!” Dean’s voice echoes through the kitchen, throughout the bunker. He takes himself into the library, Elizabeth and Castiel looking after him. They hear a loud bang, and then another.  
“Uh,” Castiel tries, seeing Elizabeth’s concerned face, “these guys have had angels, uh, meddle, with their fate before. He’s just sympathising.”  
“He’s doing a good job,” she replies.

A few seconds pass and Dean returns, instantly on the job, running on wrath. “Who do you need to speak to Cass, what’s the plan?”  
“I'm trying to figure out what the artefact was, but they weren't working for anyone at the time so pinning down a record or receipt is proving difficult. I'm hoping that might reveal a connection to some non-human source.”  
“What about the wreckage?” Elle suggests, “Can anyone get to it and see if the artefact is still there?”  
“I'll check,” nods Castiel, “Do you have any of their notes?”  
“No, nothing of that sort followed me. They were secretive apparently, but even when my aunt went to find stuff at our old house there was nothing to do with work. She seemed to assume it all belonged to employers or universities.”  
“Then I'll see if there’s anything hidden at your old address too.”  
“Okay,” Elle nods, “well, I think I need a minute to just, um… take a minute. I haven’t thought about my parents for a while…” She smiles reassuringly at Dean and begins to go. Castiel stands with her, and she takes his hand for a moment, saying “Thanks for looking, Cass.”  
“Of course,” he smiles, squeezing it with as much warmth as he could channel.

Once she’d left, Dean approaches Castiel quickly, pleading “What can I do Cass? Give me a job! I can’t flap across the planet for her; what can I do here?”  
“You can comfort her,” -at which Dean throws out his hands- “you lost your mother, Dean, to someone who toyed with your fate no less. You know what it’s like to have your family’s lives manipulated for others’ interests. Lead her through it, Dean. Be here for her.”  
Dean nods taking in his powerlessness, trying focus on what opportunity there is.  
“Dean,” Castiel confesses, “I think Elizabeth is an excellent match to you, even if you have your doubts. Also as awkward as it was to witness the two of you before, with your… intimacy… it does give me great comfort to see you so happy with her. It’s quite warming to see two people you care for so much in love.”  
“Okeydokey, Cass,” Dean replied, uneasily. “Well, if there’s ever a wedding, you can do the flowers.”  
“Really? That would be an honour.”  
“Hey, everything okay?” Dean and Castiel look up to see Sam in the doorway. “People sounded upset.”  
Dean takes a deep breath and begins what’s about to be a long and revealing conversation. “Looks like we got a newbie on Team Free Will.”

…

Dean gets his wish of cleaning up the breakfast dishes after Sam eats. They talk about the situation with Elizabeth, Dean doing his best to describe what he’s feeling for her. They come around to a messy understanding about things…  
“It’s just, you two haven’t actually been ‘connected’, have you?” Sam wonders aloud. “Cass hasn't done any laying-the-hands-of-an-angel thing, no one has. I thought you said those two guys didn't even notice each other until the cupid turned up?”  
“Yeah, it looked like a lightning bolt,” Dean confirmed.  
“Well, if your connection is not, you know, stamped as yet, there’s got to be some serious mojo somewhere for it to be working automatically. I mean, simultaneous polar births, maybe that’s something, maybe it’s enough… My gut feeling is there’s more though, something to do with her parents,” he says, sadly.  
“When is it ever not more?” Dean sighs, rubbing his face. “I'm so sick of this shit Sam. The Campbells and Mom and Dad and now, Elizabeth? Fucking angels.”  
Dean circles the glass on the table, running the bottom edge round and round on the same point. He had a bitter taste in his mouth and wasn't sure how to resolve it. He knows he is an idiot for even trying, really, _I should just man up, suck it up, and take what I can get: a friendship with an excellent woman. An excellent, awesome woman…_  
“I hear you,” Sam nods. ‘Hey, you know, go easy with Elle.”  
“What do you mean? Why wouldn't I?”  
“I know you will, I just… she’s just found out that her only purpose for living may be, literally, an arranged wedding. She might be angry at you for a while.” Dean’s head snapped at Sam angrily. “Not that you’re at fault, it’s just, you know… you’re here.”  
“Yeah, of course,” Dean realises, “well, she can punch me as long as she likes.”  
He takes a minute to move, studying his glass.  
“You ok Dean?” Sam checks, remembering Elizabeth may not be the only one burned in this.  
“Yeah, I just…” Dean hesitates, not really wanting to say it aloud, “…I just didn’t think it was fake.”


End file.
